


It's Genetic

by Erisabesu (ErisabesuFic)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Humor, M/M, Romance, S80
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 12:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisabesuFic/pseuds/Erisabesu
Summary: “It takes nine long years of blood and sweat to bring the two of them here to this point… ”  [2010.01.17]
Relationships: Superbi Squalo/Yamamoto Takeshi
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	It's Genetic

**“It’s Genetic”**

◊

It takes nine long years of blood and sweat to bring the two of them here to this point, breaths mingled and skin flushed in the aftermath of a fantastic orgasm.

Well, perhaps not exactly to _this_ point, Squalo amends, as they hastily pull their clothes back on behind the enemy hideout after a quickie so good that it lost them the precious element of surprise … but no matter. What they do they do well, and if Yamamoto tugs him close for one last kiss before showtime and says:

“Hey, why don’t you come see me in Japan next time.”

Squalo snorts and dismisses the notion altogether, thinking there’s no way in hell he’d give up this kind of excitement for a fucking tea ceremony. He bellows and charges into the fray headfirst with Yamamoto right beside him, their muscles now warm and prepped for his favorite kind of madness and mayhem.

Even against the entire force of the despicable Fazzari-Mancuso Family their movements are flawless, their teamwork invincible, and _this_ right here is the fucking point: it takes nine long years of blood and sweat to forge a seamless partnership so strong as to stun the entire Mafia world, but forge it Squalo did. And nothing could make him more proud.

Two hours later and another mission is complete, Vongola’s adversaries slaughtered like the pathetic scum they are. Squalo and Yamamoto finish up the way they began, only in a more private location, where noise or violence won’t be an issue after a joint shower to get rid of the blood leftover from all the fallen weaklings. They’re so keyed up tonight they don’t even make it out of the hotel bathroom before Squalo snarls and shoves Yamamoto into the counter and Yamamoto arcs his back, greedy to accept him, all four of their hands splayed on the wide mirror. The sex is intense, made even more so by both sets of keen eyes watching the play of lust and urgency on each other’s faces as the pleasure builds higher and higher and Squalo thinks _damn_—this brat sure knows how to fucking celebrate.

And they just fucking got started.

The members of the Varia Independent Assassination Squad don’t sleep; not really. This includes the Varia officers, of course, so on the following morning Squalo is aware of Yamamoto’s progress elsewhere in the room (the brat fills out the crisp angles of that black suit quite nicely, knotting his tie into place like his hands aren’t expert at anything else) while he instead sprawls in a mess of sheets and tangled hair, lost in repose as deep and as peaceful as his instincts will allow until Yamamoto ruins it in predictable fashion.

“Hey, Squalo.”

“_No._ If we have sex again you’re going to miss your fucking plane,” Squalo warns. Also, his back is fucking killing him.

“Haha, now I really don’t want to go.”

Squalo cracks one eye fully open. “Voooi, get out of here already.”

The brat crawls back onto the bed and nestles against him shamelessly, fully clothed, teeth nibbling his ear.

“There’s probably another plane in a few hours,” Yamamoto whispers, oh so coy.

“Tch,” Squalo jabs an elbow backward into Yamamoto’s ribs. “Quit stalling, I’m trying to sleep! You’ll be back in a couple of weeks anyways, brat.”

“Hmm.” Yamamoto smoothes the hair away from Squalo’s neck. “How about you come to see me next time?”

Squalo scowls. “In Japan? No fucking way.”

“C’mon, it’ll be fun! There’s someone I want to introduce you to.”

“Is it a swordsman?”

“Yep! The very best.”

“Wrong!” Squalo snaps, turning into Yamamoto’s hold so he can glare properly. “I’ve already defeated all the swordsmen in Japan! You even have the video tapes!”

“Hmm, but you haven’t met this one before, so that’s not true.”

“_Hah?!_”

Yamamoto grins. “It’s my dad!”

Squalo blinks. Then, for clarification: “…………your _dad_?”

“Yep!” Yamamoto’s eyes crinkle shut from his beaming smile. “I want to introduce you to my father.”

“You want me to meet your father.” Squalo repeats.

“Haha, well it’s about time, don’t you think?”

Squalo sits bolt upright. “VOOOOI!!! WHAT THE HELL IS THIS BULLSHIT!”

Yamamoto props his head on one hand. “I think you’ll like him.”

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU SAYING?!”

“I think he’ll like you too.”

“I’LL NEVER GO TO JAPAN FOR SUCH A STUPID THING, DUMB BRAT!”

“Please?”

Squalo stiffens. Yamamoto looks up at him from the bed, the epitome of calm. Squalo flings the sheets from his legs and gets up, reaching for the closest bathrobe.

This is beyond ludicrous. Has that brat gone crazy?! No fucking way, _no fucking way_ is he going halfway around the world to meet the brat’s _father_—like he’s his high school girlfriend or some shit?

“Voooi! Get those stupid ideas out of your head, fucking brat. There’s nothing worth seeing in Japan—only _trash_.”

Squalo turns his back and knots the robe’s belt, then heads to the bar and pours himself a glass of water. Behind him is quiet. And then:

“Is that so.”

Squalo drinks, one eye watching Yamamoto slide to the edge of the mattress and stand up. There’s nothing hurried or tense about his movements, but something about it makes Squalo frown. Yamamoto puts on his trench coat and sunglasses, picks up his briefcase and the suitcase containing his sword, and leaves the hotel room. The lock on the door clicks shut.

“Fucking brat,” Squalo scowls. He pours himself a whiskey next and tosses it back, then heads to the bathroom and takes a long, long shower to ignore the bad feeling in his gut. Whatever it is.

But it’s still there hours later, plaguing him as he drives back to the Varia base and compounded by the dread of what awaits him there after a three day absence.

◊

In an unbelievable turn of events, Squalo gets no calls and no messages from the brat for over two months.

The percent chance of this happening based on all previous evidence of Yamamoto’s behavior as well as the nature of his character is so small it’s not even worth calculating. Squalo clenches his teeth and throws his cell phone across the room, where it bounces once on the plush carpeting and spins into the stonework in front of the fireplace.

Nine long years of blood and sweat – nothing could possibly break them at this point, could it?

Belphegor sighs, gesturing to the chess board between them. “Not that I care, but if you’re not going to pay attention to the game I don’t see why I should have to be here.”

Squalo shoots him a dangerous look. “Voooi! I already moved, so it’s your turn!”

“And then I played, so it’s your turn,” Bel shakes his head, and then smiles, reaching for his rook. “But, if you’re losing your edge then I don’t mind moving again—”

“Quit fucking around!” Squalo shouts, kicking him under the table.

Bel’s smile wilts, thirty knives instantly fanned in his left hand. Squalo ignores him and takes his next turn, slamming his chess piece down on the board for emphasis.

On the sofa beside him, Lussuria shakes his head.

“Bad move Squalo. This really isn’t like you, you’re totally off your game.”

“—Voooi!” Squalo brandishes his sword. “I dare you to say that again!”

Bel counters Squalo’s move with a pawn, laughing _shi-shi-shi_. “Speaking of that, it’s been a while since the Rain Guardian came to visit. Did something happen~?” he sing-songs.

“Tch.” Squalo tosses his head. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

Levi crosses his arms, standing behind Bel’s chair, an evil smirk on his face. “Something definitely happened,” he whispers, gleeful.

“Voooi! All of you shut the fuck up!”

“Hey, hey, Squalo,” Lussuria holds his gloved hands up in defense. “It’s simple, really—you just need to get laid, hmm? I can definitely help~!”

Enraged, Squalo throws a punch at Lussuria’s face. Lussuria twists to block with his shining left knee, so Squalo adjusts to bash him in the shin but Lussuria catches hold of his fist.

“Or—” Lussuria opens Squalo’s fist and points to his palm. “—why don’t you just write ‘_katana brat_’ on your hand and then take care of all that pent-up frustration yourself, hmm~?”

“Fuck off!” Squalo snatches his hand back, face flushed crimson in fury. “Like I’d really take your advice, you sick fuck!”

“Shi-shi-shi, it’s your turn again, Squalo~” Bel grins.

“He’s going to lose,” Levi murmurs, chuckling in satisfaction.

Squalo jumps to his feet, his last nerve tweaked beyond repair. “VOOOOOOOOOOOIIIIIII!!!!!!”

Bel leans back in his chair, unperturbed. He crosses his legs and leans his head on one hand, smiling. “Don’t get so excited, it’s a waste of energy.”

“Bel’s right, Squalo,” Lussuria adds, lounging on the arm of the sofa.

“Of course,” Bel shrugs. “It’s not that big of a deal if he never comes back, right?”

Squalo glares, every muscle in his body rigid.

“Didn’t he leave once before?” Bel inclines his head, thoughtful. “Then this is probably the same. How _boring~_”

Squalo’s heart clamors underneath his ribs, but he can’t deny that what Bel said is true. Yamamoto did in fact step away from the Mafia—and the sword—for a period of years Squalo is loath to remember.

The idea that history could repeat itself, that Yamamoto might not come back to Italy again is so, so… so _wrong_, that Squalo can barely contain his anger. In fact, he doesn’t contain it at all—he promptly shouts and kicks the table across the room, chess pieces flying in all directions and the chess board clattering into the wall and cracking down the middle.

Then Squalo storms off to his quarters, the sound of Bel’s amusement following on his heels.

_No_, he will not let something like that happen again. Not after all it took to bring him back the first time—no way is he going to let that fucking brat call things off! What the fuck is he thinking, hiding in fucking Japan?!

_No way_ is Squalo going to let anyone interfere, especially not the man Yamamoto admires more than anyone, perhaps even more than him.

Squalo grabs his headset from the desk and punches in the code for a secure line to Maranello, Italy. As soon as it connects Squalo fills his lungs with air.

“VOOOOOI! ARE YOU LISTENING, CAVALLONE?! I WANT INFORMATION, AND YOU’RE THE ONE WHO’S GOING TO GIVE IT TO ME!!!”

◊

The first reason Squalo didn’t want to go to Japan is the flight.

Having to sit in one place inside such close quarters for an intolerable amount of time—he hates every fucking minute of it. It’s a little bit better flying on the Varia private jet, but that fucking dumb Boss wouldn’t sign the expense request, so he’s stuck on a regular commercial flight with nothing but trash. Voooi, he’s going to slice up that fucking Boss’s favorite chair the moment he gets back!

Namimori International Airport isn’t anything special, either. Squalo ignores the wild-eyed stares from all the short Japanese people clustered everywhere, grabbing his suitcase from the baggage claim turnstile and exiting the place as quickly as possible in a swirl of silver hair. He gets into a taxi and rattles off the address he got from Cavallone, then sits back and reviews his strategy as the car slips into late afternoon traffic like an eel.

First is reconnaissance. If Dino’s information is correct, the brat is up in Hokkaido for the rest of the week, handling something for that weakling Sawada. Which leaves the brat’s father—one Yamamoto Tsuyoshi—a sitting duck.

Squalo pays the taxi driver and stands on the sidewalk facing _Take Sushi_. The shop is smaller than he was expecting, but fairly respectable looking from the outside. Squalo sets his jaw and walks straight in, one hand flipping aside the curtains.

The place is _packed_. Squalo glances over the heads and faces and marks the windows and exits (standard procedure for even the weakest assassin) before settling his steely gaze on the man behind the sushi counter.

“Welcome!” the brat’s father shouts, smiling and gesturing for Squalo to come closer.

Squalo smirks. The fool has no idea what’s about to happen to him.

Still, it’s a bit of a shock to see just how closely the brat resembles this man wearing a chef’s headband, with spiky dark hair and his face etched with smile lines. The brat will no doubt age just like him. Squalo scowls and weaves his way through the tables, plopping down in the one empty seat right at the bar and forcibly pushing aside the other patrons with his suitcase.

“What’ll you have?” Yamamoto Tsuyoshi asks, wiping his hands on a clean towel and beaming.

“Club sandwich.”

“Hahaha, you’re a funny guy!” Tsuyoshi replies, laughing heartily with both hands on his hips.

Squalo shudders. Like father; like son. “Voooi, just show me your best stuff! _Pronto!_”

“Haha, coming right up!”

The man hands Squalo some hot tea before he can ask. Squalo’s eyes narrow, wondering if the brat learned how to anticipate his opponents from this man… and then he dismisses it. Coincidence, purely.

Tsuyoshi’s hands are quick without tiring, filling multiple orders simultaneously and making the whole process look effortless. Squalo watches both him and everything around him, how the repeat customers are openly friendly with Tsuyoshi and the new ones are converted into lifelong patrons even before they take their first bite. Squalo eats everything the man puts in front of him, flavors melting on his tongue in a way that proves Tsuyoshi’s skills with raw fish beyond any doubt. His mood turns blacker and blacker.

Finally there are only three customers left, the hour grown late. Squalo finishes his third cup of tea and clacks the empty mug down on the bar.

“You have a son.”

Tsuyoshi eyes him while wiping down his workstation, flashing a smile. “Oh ho, so you’ve heard of Takeshi?”

Squalo snorts. “What, is he famous?”

“Haha,” Tsuyoshi winks. “I suppose you could say that. Everyone in this town has watched him grow up from just a little thing.”

Squalo’s brows meet above his eyes.

“But… you’re not from around here, I’d wager,” Tsuyoshi comments. “How do you know Takeshi?”

And there it is—something in the man’s eyes that prickles the back of Squalo’s neck. Squalo makes no reply.

Tsuyoshi frowns in thought and openly stares at him, crossing his arms and tapping his chin.

“Say… you wouldn’t be that senpai of his from University I’ve heard so much about, would you?” Tsuyoshi tilts his head. “The one from Italy?”

Senpai—not _sensei_? Squalo cocks one eyebrow and chuckles—that fucking arrogant brat, making up such a ridiculous cover story and not even crediting him for all those video correspondence lessons.

“Oh ho,” Squalo mimics. “So you’ve heard of me!” Squalo rests his arm across the back of the empty chair beside him, very annoyed.

“Haha!” Tsuyoshi laughs. “Why didn’t I realize it sooner? He’s told me so many things about you and your University days, I can’t believe I’m finally meeting the real senpai, ahaha.”

Squalo tenses. What the fuck is he going on about?

“Ah, but it’s good for a father to have his son at home again, that’s for sure!” Tsuyoshi chuckles fondly. “Though it would be nice if he had time to help out more.”

Squalo’s expression hardens. Just what has the brat been doing while hanging around here in Japan, huh?

Tsuyoshi waves to the last departing customers as they pay the cashier by the entryway.  
Then he refills Squalo’s tea, as the cashier collects Squalo’s empty dishes and retreats to the back kitchens.

“You say that like you’re expecting him to inherit this place one day,” Squalo says, holding the mug tight in his hand, but not drinking.

Tsuyoshi’s face turns wistful. “Ah, well… that would be nice, wouldn’t it? If he wanted to I wouldn’t stop him, but… I think Takeshi is meant for other things.”

Squalo’s mouth curls. _Checkmate_.

“C’mere a second.” Tsuyoshi beckons. “Let me show you something good!”

Dubious, Squalo follows him across the restaurant to a side door. There, a double-long flight of stairs goes up to the second floor, likely leading to the family living quarters. Tsuyoshi toes off his work shoes and steps into a pair of slippers, pointing at Squalo’s feet for him to do the same.

And this is the second reason Squalo didn’t want to go to Japan—there’s nothing more irritating than having to take off his lace up boots all the time. On again, off again, on again, off again. Fuck!

He grinds his teeth, sitting on the first step and working the laces loose. These damn Japanese; shoes should stay on your fucking feet! Voooi!

Squalo resists—barely—from kicking his boots into the outside door, instead shoving his feet into guest slippers and lining his boots side by side in the genkan so he can follow Tsuyoshi up the steps.

Then the man only goes _five steps up_ before grinning and pointing to the wall.

Squalo stops his seething from the shock of so many framed photographs all crammed into the one space. Front and center in every one of them is Yamamoto Takeshi, grinning in that way where his heart has overflowed up and out through his entire body, childish in bliss. Squalo is momentarily struck dumb. Each photo has the brat at a different age, some with him and a few friends, some more formal group shots. But in every one he’s wearing a variation of the same thing: a baseball uniform.

Squalo forgets about Tsuyoshi for the moment, slowly moving up the stairs and trying to take in so much unexpected information at once. Captured here is a side of the brat he doesn’t know at all, and it _rankles_. And because it rankles Squalo gets angry, and then because he’s angry he gets offended that there isn’t one photo of the brat engaged in what he’s truly good at—using a sword.

“Isn’t it great?” Tsuyoshi sighs, still smiling. “This is what I call my ‘wall of pride.’ He’s a great kid, that Takeshi. Look how happy he is!”

Squalo clenches his hands into fists.

“Well as his senpai I’m sure you know how much he loves baseball,” Tsuyoshi continues, oblivious to Squalo’s reactions. “This one’s the newest photo, taken just two weeks ago.”

“_What_?” Squalo snaps, horrified to see the present day Yamamoto right there in the picture under Tsuyoshi’s pointing finger.

“Yep, that’s from the Namimori middle school reunion! Takeshi and his teammates from nine years ago played the alumni from the neighboring middle school. Slaughtered them, those poor guys, ahaha.” Tsuyoshi beams in pride.

Squalo wants to vomit.

The cashier appears at the foot of the steps. “Yamamoto-san? I’ve finished in the kitchen. Is there anything else you’d like me to do?”

“Ah!” Tsuyoshi jumps. “Pardon me,” he says, leaving Squalo on the steps while he quickly changes his shoes back and returns to his restaurant.

Squalo turns away from the photos and returns to the genkan. He puts on his boots and pulls the laces tight, to match his nerves. When he emerges back into the shop, Tsuyoshi is waving goodbye to the cashier, a cheery smile on his face.

“Say, is that a suitcase?” Tsuyoshi asks, gesturing to Squalo’s seat at the sushi bar. “Goodness, did you just get into town? From Italy?”

“Yes, and I’ll be on my way now,” Squalo replies, crossing over to his belongings and getting out his wallet. “But I thank you for the meal.”

“Wait, wait,” Tsuyoshi pushes Squalo’s money away. “You probably came to visit Takeshi, right? Oh dear, and he’s out of town right now. Why don’t you stay here then, er… what was your name? Ahaha.”

“_Squalo_.”

“That’s right! Squalo-san, in place of my son I insist on offering you our family’s hospitality, come-come.”

Tsuyoshi tries to pick up Squalo’s suitcase, but Squalo grabs it first.

“No thank you, I have a hotel reservation—”

“Haha, don’t be silly!” Tsuyoshi beams. “Stay!”

And then the man dashes to the shop’s entryway and pulls down the metal sliding door, locking it tight to close the restaurant.

“Come-come, you can stay in Takeshi’s room! I insist!” Tsuyoshi beckons to him from the side door. “You can put your things up, and then we’ll go out someplace really nice and have a drink, yeah?”

Squalo glares. “I really don’t—”

Tsuyoshi glares back. “Takeshi would be so embarrassed if I didn’t show his senpai the proper hospitality.”

Then the glare switches instantly into a grin. “So up you go! Our house is your house, Squalo-san!”

_I’m going to murder that man,_ Squalo vows. _And he’ll never see it coming._ Squalo shows Yamamoto Tsuyoshi a smile full of teeth as he carries his bags to the stairs.

And then he realizes he’ll have to take his boots off. _Again_.

◊

If there’s one thing the Japanese _do_ get right, it’s the concept of communal bathing coupled with the appropriate pastime of drinking sake.

Where it goes completely _wrong_, however, is Squalo having to sit in the virtually empty bathhouse beside the katana brat’s father, after learning that the man and his son have yet another thing in common.

Fucking hell—nothing he’s ever experienced with the Varia has been this awkward. He’s not even that shy, but it’s all Squalo can do to keep his eyes totally averted from the man, for even though he’s wearing a towel, the image from the changing rooms has not yet gone away. It’s nearly a Herculean effort as it is for Squalo to keep his thoughts away from the countless times he’s bathed with the man’s son, or—god forbid—the things he’s done with said son either before or after they bathed, and in many cases, both.

Tsuyoshi whistles a tune amiably, scooting the floating sake tray into Squalo’s elbow so he can pour the next round of drinks. Squalo’s lips make a tense line of his mouth as he pours, wishing there was stronger stuff on hand to get him through this.

“Squalo-san.”

Tsuyoshi’s voice is surprisingly serious, and Squalo lifts a brow, assessing.

The man holds Squalo’s gaze, a partial smile on his lips. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

Squalo squints, instantly wary. “Voooi. What is that supposed to mean?”

“Haha, I guess that does sound strange.” Tsuyoshi rubs the back of his head. “What I mean is, I’d like to ask you to help me with something. As Takeshi’s senpai.”

Squalo frowns. Why does everything keep turning weird? “Go on.”

Tsuyoshi smiles, then settles back against the bath’s rim, looking upward to the ceiling. “You see, two weeks ago at the Nami-middle reunion, the Principal offered Takeshi a position as baseball coach.”

Squalo humphs. He doesn’t like the way this is going.

“The baseball team there has really grown, and they need someone with experience and playing ability to teach kids from all levels how to be better, which will raise the overall team strength and put Nami-middle in the running to win tournaments. Like they did when Takeshi was there.”

“Stop right there—I don’t know a thing about baseball, old man,” Squalo sneers.

“Oh?” Tsuyoshi cocks his head, frowning. “You’re not the senpai from the University baseball team with the over-four-hundred-kilometers-per-hour swing?”

Squalo jerks—what the hell has that brat been saying?! He gestures vaguely, “I mean I don’t know anything about teaching baseball, so you can forget it.”

“Ah, haha, that’s not what I meant.” Tsuyoshi laces his fingers behind his head. “I want to ask _you_, Squalo-san, to use your influence as a senpai and help bring Takeshi around. It’s clear he loves baseball more than anything, but for some reason he’s hesitating. I just don’t get it. ”

Tsuyoshi rubs his hands through his cropped hair, turning to face Squalo. “It’s his dream job. It would be such a waste for him to turn it down, don’t you think? And if he does turn it down, he’s not likely to get another chance. All he’s using now is his degree in International Relations, although he went to school on a baseball scholarship in the first place—he’s just as qualified for this kind of position, even if the pay isn’t as good. I just think if it’s you, maybe you can convince him.”

Tsuyoshi sighs, falling silent for a time. Then, as if aiming to land a _coup de grace_:

“As his father I just want him to be happy, but can he be happy doing what he’s doing?”

Squalo looks away, watching the curling steam rise from the bath water. “Who knows.”

“Just think about it, will you? Squalo-san?”

Squalo makes no further reply. He pours more sake and sends the tray to Tsuyoshi, both of them drinking in silence before the bath house closes for the night.

◊

Squalo has never given much thought to what the brat’s bedroom would look like, the one he grew up in.

He can’t say he’s very surprised by the reality, sports pennants tacked along the ceiling and a bookcase with the top two shelves full of glittering, albeit dusty trophies. On the back of the door there’s an outdated poster of some swimsuit model, and Squalo snorts in amusement. He sits down on the brat’s bed, aware that the person who lived here was someone else. Innocent. Weak. Stubborn and infuriating.

The brat of today is still those things to some extent, which Squalo finds particularly maddening. He no longer lives in his father’s house, but Squalo knows—knows by the tingle in his guts after seeing things firsthand—that this place, Take Sushi, and this town, Namimori, are more than just important to Yamamoto. And then the brat’s father… _that guy_ is on a whole other level.

It’s strange and rather incomprehensible for Squalo—all he’s ever had is the sword.

But… maybe it’s not the same for the brat.

The brat Squalo knows is strong, both his heart and mind matching the skill in which he wields his sword. A person who can act when it’s necessary, whatever the cost. A person who—Squalo has always believed, anyway—shares his devotion to the blade.

Okay fine, Yamamoto gave it up once. He was young. Misguided. And because he came back (no matter how it happened or what it took) Squalo can grant him an excuse, but what does that mean now? Lying low here in Japan, not even a smidge of evidence of the brat using his sword against any of that fake Sawada’s enemies, so what the fuck is he doing? Entertaining the notion of being a baseball coach and giving up everything he’s worked for? Throwing away their partnership?!

“This is bullshit,” Squalo seethes, turning out the light and climbing into the brat’s old bed.

When he can’t sleep, he throws a forearm over his eyes. “What the fuck am _I_ doing here?”

◊

In the early hours of the morning, Squalo gets dressed in his Varia uniform and straps on his sword.

He’s had not a wink of sleep, but he _has_ come to a decision, and that’s all that counts at this point. He descends the steps wearing slippers, but it’s fine—he’ll do this barefoot if necessary, wholly unwilling to take the time to stop and put his boots on, regardless of whether it’s even possible to do so while armed with his sword.

Squalo steps into the restaurant and stands directly in the middle with his feet shoulder-width apart, facing his chosen opponent with complete resolve.

Across from him, headband tied snug above a severe expression, is Yamamoto Tsuyoshi.

“Listen up, old man!” Squalo barks. “I’ve thought about your request.”

“And?” the man replies, his solid presence unwavering behind the sushi counter.

Squalo tips his head back to cackle. “You want _me_ to convince that brat to become a baseball coach? DON’T EVEN MAKE ME LAUGH!” Squalo points his sword at Tsuyoshi’s throat. “That fucking brat already belongs to ME! I will never allow him to leave my side, nor will I allow _you_ to take him back! VOOOOI!”

The shadow over Tsuyoshi’s eyes goes black. “I thought it might come to this, Squalo-san.”

“Therefore I challenge you to a duel!” Squalo slices his sword through the air, laughing maniacally.

But Tsuyoshi only shouts: “I ACCEPT!” Then he points to the front of the sushi counter. “And I’ve already prepared your apron!!!”

Squalo’s laughter dies. “Voooi! What is that?! I’m saying I’ll fucking KILL YOU!”

Tsuyoshi cocks his head. “If you think you can—put on the apron so we can start!”

“What the—” Squalo bares his teeth, enraged. “You don’t seem to understand, old man! I am going to SLICE YOU INTO RIBBONS!!!”

Tsuyoshi suddenly throws a whole tuna, hitting Squalo square in the chest with it and screaming: “HOW ARE YOU GOING TO KILL ME IF YOU CAN’T EVEN CUT A FUCKING FISH!”

Squalo gapes, so livid that a blood vessel pops in one eye. “VOOOOOOOOIIII!!!!!!” he bellows, grabbing the tuna off the floor and hurdling it at the chef like a pro-league fastball.

Tsuyoshi doesn’t miss a beat. His hands blur in the air from the speed of his knives, the tuna beheaded, de-boned, and filleted in mid air and then caught on a fancy dish at the last moment.

Squalo watches the pieces fall into a perfectly arranged work of art, speechless with outrage, awe, and battle lust.

Tsuyoshi sets the dish to the side and gestures as if to say: _Come!_

Squalo flips his hair back over his shoulder, pointing again with his blade. “Voooooi! Now that I’ve seen it once, you’ve totally given away any chance of winning! I have already seen through your technique!!!”

Tsuyoshi fixes him with a penetrating stare, throwing the folded apron at Squalo’s feet and then holding up a second tuna in challenge.

Squalo grinds his teeth, but grabs the apron anyways. “Vooooi! Looks like you don’t have any brain cells! I’m going to make you regret this!”

Squalo detaches the blade from his hand before charging behind the sushi station, taking position on one side. He snatches the tuna from Tsuyoshi and uses the man’s own knives to duplicate the move from earlier completely. Ffft-ffft-ffft-ffft and the fish is _done_.

“Voooi!” Squalo presents the final product, eyes gleaming.

“Hmph,” Tsuyoshi comments, taking out a salmon.

He throws this in the air as well, his hands blurring again as he thoroughly prepares the fish into another artistic, edible creation. He displays this dish right next to his tuna, as if to claim two points to Squalo’s one.

Not to be outdone, Squalo takes the salmon Tsuyoshi offers to him and pulverizes it.

“No!” Tsuyoshi whacks him on the head with a rice spoon. “You can’t prepare a salmon the same way you prepare a tuna—idiot! WATCH AGAIN!”

Squalo repeats the salmon round with significantly better results, placing his second creation next to his tuna with pride. “Voooi!”

They go on in this vein for over an hour, alternating between gutting different kinds of fish and yelling at the top of their lungs. Squalo is amazed to see Tsuyoshi’s ability not just with the blade, but in the presentation of every fish and the fine details. He absolutely burns in battle frenzy, and by the end when they compete over squid—a common delicacy in Italy—Squalo’s version could even be considered superior.

“AHAHA, I WIN!” Squalo points at his dish in victory. “Look at that, old man! Remember this day well, for it is the day I have SURPASSED YOU AT YOUR OWN GAME!!! VOOOOI!”

Tsuyoshi calmly wipes his hands on a fresh towel, passing one to Squalo, and smiling.

“You are right, Squalo-san. Only someone who can do this—” he sweeps his hand to indicate the huge number of varied dishes taking up every table around them, “—is worthy of my son.”

“Don’t you fucking forget it!” Squalo glares, wiping the fish from his hands. “And you tell that lousy son of yours to get his ass over to Italy—_pronto_!”

◊

Not satisfied with only the one message, Squalo calls the brat’s cell phone before boarding his plane back to Italy and leaves one of his own:

“Listen up Katana-brat! If you don’t show your face in Italy in the next fortnight, don’t expect me ever to call this number again! Voooi!”

Almost ten days go by before Squalo’s cell phone screen lights up with Yamamoto’s name, signaling an incoming call. Squalo stares at it in disbelief for a moment, and then he stands up so he can pace around his office, feeling strangely nervous.

“That you, brat?”

“Yep, it’s me.”

Squalo waits for him to continue, frowning when he doesn’t. “Voooi, say something!”

“Haha, actually I’m standing right outside your office door.”

“_Hah?!_” Squalo whirls around.

“Wanna let me in?”

“Fucking brat,” Squalo shakes his head, cutting off the call and crossing to the double doors.

Sure enough, Yamamoto is standing there, sunglasses tucked into the front of his trench coat, briefcase and suitcase on the floor by his feet. He grins, and Squalo has a strong enough flashback of Tsuyoshi that he has to look away, playing it off by rolling his eyes.

“Took you long enough,” Squalo huffs, moving to the side so the brat can enter the room.

Squalo locks the door behind him, positive that Lussuria, at the very least, will try to listen in or spy on them.

“Well, I was pretty mad,” Yamamoto admits. “I would have called sooner, but Tsuna needed my help in the underground base he’s building in Namimori, so I haven’t had phone signal, and there hasn’t been time to call over the secure line.”

He slips the overcoat from his shoulders and folds it over an arm chair. Then he comes over to Squalo. “But you insulted my father, and I don’t like that. So you owe me.”

Squalo doesn’t hide from Yamamoto’s eyes, always so clear and direct. “I met your father,” he offers.

“I know.” Yamamoto’s mouth curves.

“Oh, he gave you my message, did he? Good man,” Squalo chuckles.

“He also gave me a video. Wanna watch it?” Yamamoto cocks his head, eyes suddenly sparkling.

“_That’s_ the first thing you want to do after three months?” Squalo scowls, wary of such a bizarre deviation.

“It’s interesting.” Yamamoto smiles. “I think you’ll like it.”

Squalo pinches the bridge of his nose. Somehow he’s been cornered, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Alright fine, put the fucking tape on.”

The brat grins, taking off his suit jacket and tie, and working Squalo’s DVD player like he fucking owns the place. Squalo lounges on the couch, watching Yamamoto’s every move; just a few minutes and his body reacts, nothing calm at all about it. Yamamoto sits down beside him, close, and pushes play on the remote.

They are deafened by the first _VOOOOOOOIII_. Even Squalo cringes before Yamamoto finds the mute button, the wide screen showing the interior of _Take Sushi_ and the sunrise showdown that took place inside it not too long ago.

“What the fuck is this?!” Squalo asks, kicking Yamamoto in the shin.

“Haha, dad made it for me.”

Squalo’s jaw drops, infuriated by this video’s existence. “That asshole—he fucking tricked me!”

Yamamoto laughs. “This is your ninety-fourth battle, yeah?”

Squalo slugs him in the arm. “Shut up! I refuse to accept this!”

“Haha, I think he was just jealous that you kept sending me videos.” Yamamoto cards his fingers through Squalo’s hair, scooping it back from his shoulder. “And he really wanted to meet you, you know.”

“What the…” Squalo trails off, unable to keep from staring at the screen. He can’t get over it–that Tsuyoshi had droned on and on about some kiddie-coaching position while the brat was underground in the same fucking city doing work for Sawada the whole time. Squalo squirms in his seat, equal parts enraged and impressed. He grits his teeth until he can’t stand it any longer.

“The fucking nerve!” Squalo jerks his chin at the silenced TV, where Tsuyoshi brandishes an octopus as they argue mid-battle. “He set me up, that sly old fox. I’ll definitely kill him next time!”

Yamamoto grins. “So you’ll come to Japan again, then? All three of us could–”

“–_VOOOI!_ The both of you _fucking piss me off!_” Squalo shouts, and Yamamoto leans in to press a kiss underneath Squalo’s ear.

“Don’t be mad, Squalo. Dad meant well, you know? He knows I’m not going to inherit the shop, and that I won’t play baseball anymore. Not like before.”

Squalo frowns at the sense of loss transmitted to his skin through Yamamoto’s breath, the brush of his lips.

“He knows what, and who, I’ve chosen. He even knows you tried to kill me once, and he’s still given us his approval. He won’t interfere anymore, so let’s cut him some slack, okay?”

“Tch,” Squalo rolls his eyes. “Who cares about approval?”

Yamamoto’s hand tightens in Squalo’s hair, and he moves—so quick—to straddle Squalo’s lap. Locking their eyes, he says it very clearly. “_I do_.”

Squalo licks his lips. “Fine. I got it.”

Yamamoto smiles.

And then Squalo twists and pins him across the seat of the sofa. “But don’t get cocky, brat—you only just got here.”

“Haha,” Yamamoto’s eyes flash. “You’re the one who asked me to come.”

“So quit annoying me, brat, before I send you back.” Squalo grins, nudging Yamamoto’s thigh with his knee and aligning their hips.

Yamamoto wraps Squalo’s hair around his wrist in one long cord, tugging him closer. “Hey Squalo.”

“_No._ I’m not listening to any more of your fucking ridiculous whims, and I’m not gonna stop now even if you _beg_, katana brat.”

Yamamoto grins. “Make me sushi later? I wanna see all your new techniques, Squalo-_senpai_…” He slides his free hand down the front of Squalo’s stomach to the clasp of Squalo’s leather pants.

“Fucking _brat_,” Squalo smirks. “Let’s see you work up my appetite first.”

The brat grins wider, angling his head for the long-anticipated first kiss after three months of celibacy. Squalo eagerly leans in to meet Yamamoto’s parted lips—

And then the office doors crash open, Levi, Lussuria, and Belphegor collapsed in an embarrassing heap on the carpet and immediately trying to blame each other for causing the disturbance.

The mood broken, Squalo and Yamamoto exchange matched angry glares and then spring as one—swords grabbed along the way—to deliver their best and most lethal brand of retribution, the kind that spurs even the Varia to run for their lives.

—

Ω

**Author's Note:**

> Gift for the amazing Questofdreams during the OSS Winterfest exchange on livejournal in 2010. ♥


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